


The Fire it Ignites

by SpeakerForTheDead



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Harry Potter, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Dragons, Elemental Magic, Gen, Good Albus Dumbledore, Let Harry Potter say fuck, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Occlumency, Powerful Harry Potter, Time Skips, Transfiguration (Harry Potter), Triwizard Tournament, duel, harry gets trained, he means well, this might be a little disjointed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeakerForTheDead/pseuds/SpeakerForTheDead
Summary: Dumbledore takes it upon himself to teach Harry Occlumency at the start of the fourth year, and it changes everything.This is a canon divergent Goblet of Fire fic, Harry is a bit smarter and more powerful than canon and his approach to the tasks will be different.--UPDATE --As of May 2020, the first chapter has been rewritten. Poor grammar and plot have been fixed, only major change is the dragon fight, and the word count has nearly doubled.





	The Fire it Ignites

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to write a canon divergent Goblet of Fire AU without running into the pitfall of rewriting the book verbatim. as such, the story takes into account that most if not all of those reading this have already read the book/watched the movie, and knows the general plot.  
> I intend to write the Goblet of Fire story all the way through but it would be nice if y'all could tell me if y'all are interested in the premise, so I can decide to do the other books as well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chosen champions, secrets revealed, tested and new friendships, and dragon fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Majorly edited as of 5/17/20 (nearly twice the length)  
> Mainly grammar and storytelling changes, as the original posting was frankly unacceptable. the only major changes are in the dragon fight.
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I'm trying to write a canon divergent Goblet of Fire AU without running into the pitfall of rewriting the book verbatim. as such, the story takes into account that most if not all of those reading this have already read the book/watched the movie, and knows the general plot.  
> I intend to write the Goblet of Fire story all the way through but it would be nice if y'all could tell me if y'all are interested in the premise, so I can decide to do the other books as well.

“Occlumency begins with clearing and organizing your mind.”

Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry regards his student with a twinkle in his eye. 

Harry Potter sits in a rather comfy conjured chair in the middle of a large and beautiful circular room, full of odd noises and puffs of colored smoke. Curious silver instruments stand on spindle-legged tables, whirring and ticking away with merry abandon. The walls are covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom pretending to sleep in their frames, their half-opened eyes and not so subtle glances betraying their interest. Across an enormous, claw-footed desk with a familiar phoenix sitting on it, the greatest wizard of his age attempts to teach him despite the hectic environment.

“You see, Harry,” Dumbledore continues, “the first step to recognizing that someone is shuffling through your thoughts and memories and keeping them out, requires categorizing your memories so you can sense if something is out of place.”

Harry nods, a puzzled look on his face.

“But how would I do that professor?”

Dumbledore explains the process of setting up a mind palace as Harry thinks back to what led him here to this impromptu lesson. 

A dream of Voldemort, Wormtail, and an unknown stranger murdering an old man had kicked off this series of unfortunate events. 

Once he awoke, dull pain throbbing in his scar, the Boy-Who-Lived had immediately owled the headmaster as well as his godfather, the escaped yet innocent convict Sirius Black.

Death Eaters had set off the Dark Mark using his wand at the quidditch World Cup, wreaking havoc and tormenting the muggles who owned the campground.

All of that occurred before the term had even started, and then the elderly headmaster had announced even more devastating news.

Dumbledore canceled quidditch. Quidditch!

As if to make up for the lack of Harry’s favorite pastime the long-bearded warlock then announced the Triwizard Tournament, an event that the teen could just feel with bone-deep certainty was gonna go wrong somehow. 

In the aftermath of the tumultuous announcement, the headmaster slipped him a note in the form of a conjured snitch requesting to meet in his office after the opening feast. 

The old headmaster had explained how he was worried that Harry and Voldemort’s connection grows stronger and wanted to teach him Occlumency to protect him. 

All of which had led to where they are now, sitting across each other in the headmaster’s office, various magical objects spinning around them, as the headmaster explains how he will be repeatedly attempting to invade the teen’s mind until he could be successfully repelled. 

As Dumbledore draws his wand and prepares to cast Legilimency at the scarred teen, the only thing that Harry can think is that _“This is gonna suck.”_

* * *

It did. 

It very much did.

After much trial and error, painstaking Occlumency exercises, a truly obscene amount of headache potions, and nearly a month of school, Harry has built up rudimentary shields able to resist Dumbledore for a minute. In the process, he had also organized his mind, finding something very out of place. 

A line of sluggish black magic that pulses malignantly, somehow attached to his scar and buried in the depths of his subconscious simultaneously. 

The source of his connection to Voldemort.

The connection practically bleeds anger and malice, a tremulous thread of dark energy that had lain hidden in a secluded corner of Harry's mind since that fateful night.

Harry erected inner walls and mental bars and isolated it as best he could. 

* * *

During their time together Dumbledore also begins to teach him nonverbal casting, reasoning that if the teen ever needs to cast Legilimency he must do it silently, the element of surprise being incredibly helpful in a duel between minds. 

With his newly organized mind and better control of emotions, Harry takes to silent casting like a duck to water, it comes to him as easy as breathing. After a week and a half, he can do nearly every spell he had learned at Hogwarts but the Patronus nonverbally, and the boy is infuriatingly close to getting that last one, the concentration required brushing the tips of his fingers as he reaches for it.

* * *

The other two schools arrive on a cold November day. 

A carriage flies through the sky and a ship rises from the depths of the lake, students from different countries flooding the grounds like baby deer, full of tentative steps, and feigned confidence in an unfamiliar place.

As Harry takes in the presence of students much older and more experienced than him he silently thanks whatever gods there are that he didn’t have to compete. 

* * *

Victor Krum is there, and Ron won’t stop gushing about him. 

Fleur Delacour is there as well, a half Veela who draws nearly every male eye and a good portion of the females to her like a magnet, with only a select few resisting her unconscious allure, Harry, Snape, and Dumbledore among them. 

* * *

Halloween comes as it always does, bringing with it the same bad feeling that it brings every year, and the feeling Harry had when the tournament was announced returns. Nothing good ever happens on Halloween. 

His parent's deaths, the troll, Mrs. Norris’ petrification, Sirius’ break-in.

He ignores the chill down his spine and his instincts screaming for him to spend the day curled up in bed and vows to enjoy the feast and cheer for whoever the goblet picked. 

* * *

A charred bit of paper flutters down through the air like a butterfly who has burnt its wings.

Falling into the hand of Dumbledore as the hall is quiet, not a word coming from the mass of people as the headmaster unfolds it, suddenly looking every bit his age.

* * *

  
  


“Harry Potter.”

“ _Fuck_ ”

  
  


* * *

The Boy-Who-Has-Come-To-Regret-Living makes his way to the antechamber as he is beckoned, numb with the realization that he would likely be trapped in this farce.

Krum sneers haughtily, Cedric looks puzzled, and Fleur called him a little boy, at which he bristles.

“Harry,” comes the voice of Albus Dumbledore, in the tone he used on troublemakers, firm and disappointed, the tone that always makes Harry feel an inch tall, “Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“I did not, professor,” and as Harry meets his mentor’s eyes he lowers his mental shields and beckons the headmaster to view the week’s memories. 

After what seems like forever in their minds, but was naught but a fraction of a second the two break eye contact, but not before Dumbledore sends one word over their link, “ _Veritasium.”_

Understanding dawns on Harry as the organizers and champions argue over whether he has to compete and if Harry had entered himself, coming to rest on the conclusion that he had to compete or lose his magic. 

Harry raises his voice over the arguing. 

“Now that it’s decided that I must compete, can we put to rest whether I entered or was entered?”

“And how could we do that, Mr. Potter,” Headmaster Karkaroff sneers.

“Easy,” Harry states matter of factly as everyone turns to look at him, “I know for a fact that Snape has Veritasium, why don’t you dose me and verify my claims.”

Ignoring Dumbledore’s quiet admonishment of “ _Professor_ Snape,” and the head of Slytherin’s look of vindictive glee, the organizers quickly agree and a house-elf is sent for the truth serum to be fetched. 

Harry opens his mouth so the potions master could pour three drops in, and the required questions were asked to verify that the serum is working. As a peculiar fog invades Harry’s mind, something he would have never noticed before his Occlumency lessons, the questions begin with Dumbledore in the lead. 

“Did you put your name in the goblet of fire?”

“I did not,” Harry refutes in a monotone voice.

“Did you have someone else put your name in or know of someone who put your name in?”

“I did not.”

“Did you ever plan to enter the tournament?”

“I did not.”

“Have you stolen from my potions stores?” Snape cuts in, the potion master’s face becoming apoplectic when Harry answers back with a negative.

“Is it true that you slew a basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor?” That was Cedric, cutting in despite the headmaster’s disapproving look. 

“I did.”

The others began muttering among themselves, but no one asks any direct questions until Fluer exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! How big was it?”

“At least sixty feet, but I didn’t get an accurate count.”

“That is enough!” Dumbledore roars as everyone gears up to shout more questions at the drugged teen. 

“The purpose of this was to determine his innocence. Not for you to ask whatever you saw fit. Severus,” he gestures for the potions professor, “the antidote.”

At once the fog clears from his mind, the bitter taste of the veritasium antidote sliding down his throat as Harry runs through a quick Occlumency exercise to regain his equilibrium. 

As the meeting finishes up, with the first task being scheduled for November 24th, Harry and Cedric leave at the same time for their common rooms, but not before Dumbledore whispers in Harry’s ear for the teen to meet him at his office tomorrow. 

“I believe you Harry, and I’ll tell the Hufflepuffs too,” Cedric says as they come to a stop at the intersection they were to separate. 

“Thanks, Cedric,” Harry replies with no small amount of relief. 

“But I’m not gonna go easy on you because you’re younger, if the goblet picked you, you must be worthy,” the Hufflepuff seeker sticks his hand to shake, “So what do you say, competitors?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shaking his hand with a grin, “let’s give them a show.”

* * *

Harry gets back to the common room and learns something. 

Hermione, the Weasley twins, and Neville say they believe him. 

Neville’s resolved “I trust you, Harry,” warms his heart. 

Ron’s anger and disbelief chill him to the bone. 

* * *

Most of the Gryffindors don’t believe him and yet are happy to have a champion. 

The older ones are mad they didn’t get chosen and that he “stole their chance.”

The Ravenclaws are mostly indifferent, having no real stake in the tournament, but a few vocal exceptions, once again from the older years, are vocal in their displeasure. 

The Slytherins just see this as one more chance to hex him and ostracize him. 

The Hufflepuffs are _livid_. Despite Cedric’s best efforts to convince them otherwise, they believe he entered himself and is “stealing their glory.”

Between all the factions of the school who turn against him, Harry starts wearing his invisibility cloak in the halls to avoid hexes and jinxes thrown his way, and when the halls get to crowded he attempts to learn the disillusionment charm but it's not as effective. He resorts to a Notice-Me-Not charm and hides that way.

“ _At least it’s better than having to shield myself every five minutes_ ,” he thinks, trekking through the halls with no stares or whispers following him for the first time at Hogwarts.

* * *

  
  


“We are lucky we began these lessons before the Goblet picked you, Harry.”

Albus Dumbledore looks tired. 

The twinkles behind his glasses are dimmer and his beard is slightly fuzzier than usual. 

“Otherwise,” Dumbledore continues, “the magic of the artifact wouldn’t allow me to continue instructing you. Its prohibition on headmaster help is enforced by an oath very similar to the one that binds you.”

“As it is, I cannot teach you anything that would specifically help with the tournament, we can only continue your Occlumency exercises.”

“If you recall our lessons, Harry,” Dumbledore starts, “could you perhaps reiterate how a battle of Legilimency and Occlumency occurs.”

Thinking back to when the headmaster had first taught him Legilimency, Harry explains, “Mind battles generally occur as both parties send probes of legilimency at each other to try to break the other’s shields, and those probes are defended against by hiding behind ones own shield until an opening is found to send a probe back.”

“Very good,” Dumbledore nods approvingly, “almost verbatim from what I told you.”

Harry can’t help but preen a tiny amount, his trials with learning Occlumency have greatly improved his memory and retention skills, something that was becoming apparent in class if his teacher’s odd looks were anything to go by.

“I would like to begin teaching you a new method of Occlumency, one I don’t think anyone has ever been taught before. As far as I know, this has never been attempted at all.”

Seeing he has Harry’s undivided attention, Dumbledore explains, “When I try to penetrate your defenses I want you to push back instead of weathering the assault. Try to drive my probe back into my mind.”

“How is that different from regular Occlumency and legilimency?” Harry asks, puzzled. 

“Like you so readily explained earlier, in normal mind battles there is no push back like what we are about to attempt,” the headmaster unlaced his long fingers and strokes his beard contemplatively, “However, I believe that with this method of Occlumency will be a two-way street that occurs. You may see some of my memories and if some things happen to… slip through, well we can’t be blamed by the goblet for anything you learn can we?”

As the headmaster finishes his explanation the trademarked twinkle returns to his eyes, and Harry perks up in anticipation of the magical experiment. 

“Do you understand, Harry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you prepared?”

The teen steels himself and at Harry’s nod of assent, the headmaster delves into the raven-haired teen’s mind. 

Once he feels the headmaster’s probe on his shield, Harry gathered up his focus and will and _pushes._

His vision seemed to flow through the headmaster's eyes and Harry finds himself in the middle of a battle. 

* * *

_He and Aberforth stand back to back. Surrounded in an ambush by ten members of Gellert’s strike forces in Germany._

_Venomous green, sickly purple, and blood-red spells fly back and forth as the two factions battle for dominance. He transfigures wolves and birds of prey from the surrounding rubble to distract their attackers and block spells. Then with a twist of his wand, he conjured metal spikes from the air that he banishes towards them. Behind him, he could hear Aberforth casting bone breakers, cutters, and blasting curses, shielding and dodging all the while._

_They slowly whittle their opponents down, till only three remain._

_Aberforth removes one's wand arm with a flame whip while He contains the last two in bonds of stone. As he pants and catches his breath from the battle he has to bite back the urge to strike them down where they stood, for vengeance upon Gellert for Ariana._

_Squashing the temptation, he quickly transfigured them to figurines to hand over to the authorities. He turned to Aberforth and opens his mouth to say-_

* * *

Harry and Dumbledore break the bond and sit back, gasping for air. 

“Close your eyes my boy, and describe what you saw,” Dumbledore orders once he has caught his breath. 

Harry complied and began explaining, “Aberforth and I had stumbled into an ambush in Germany, we were combating ten wizards with a combination of curses and transfigurations.”

Dumbledore hummed in agreement. 

“And who is Aberforth to you?” He queries

“My brother of course.”

“Harry you don’t have a brother”

“Of course I do,” Harry says, eyes snapping open, “and a sister- Wait… what? What’s happening?”

“I believe,” Dumbledore explained with a heavy sigh, “that you’re viewing my memories like that because we touched minds, and we were sharing memories in a way unlike any other. It was like you were me. The boundaries of your identity are blurred.”

“What does that mean for me, professor?”

“It means, Harry, that with this method of occlumency we are boldly going where no man has gone before.” Dumbledore quotes whimsically, before his voice gains a note of steel, “and that you must meditate on your memories after these sessions to retain your sense of self.”

As Harry shows his agreement, the headmaster’s voice returns to its usual genial tone. 

“Now, if you would, my boy, show me a spell you learned from the memory.”

Excited, Harry grins and transfigures a hawk from one of Dumbledore’s lemon drops. Taking a second to watch in awe at the feat he had never before accomplished that suddenly comes as easy as if he had practiced for years, Harry then transfigures a spike from another lemon drop and banishes it at the hawk, spearing the transfigured creature and returning it to its previous state, barely missing the sorting hat that squawks in anger. 

“Well done my boy,” Dumbledore claps his hands approvingly, a smile peeking out over his beard. 

“Now that the fun is over, I must return to the more serious reason for this meeting.”

At that ominous proclamation, the headmaster begins gravely explaining how he had bound Harry’s magic in half after that fateful Halloween night, to prevent the growth of his and Voldemort’s connection. He explained how Harry's power as a baby was on par with Dumbledore’s power when he was that age. 

Dumbledore believed that the binding wouldn’t unduly interfere with his life or magic, just putting him on the level of everyone else while saving him from the horrors of the connection. How now that Harry is learning Occlumency and had gotten entered into a dangerous tournament made for those years his senior, Harry needed to have his full power now that he could block out the connection on his own now. 

“I can do nothing more than beg for your forgiveness, Harry, for an evil that I believed was crucially necessary. A choice I regret every day.”

As his explanation is wrapped up Dumbledore watches Harry sadly and warily for his reaction. 

The Boy-Who-Lived is silent, and deathly still. The passive look on his face is indicative of someone buried deep in their occlumency, trying to keep their emotions in check. Even with that effort, his rage leaks past the seams. 

The air feels thick with magic and the trinkets and artifacts on the headmaster’s ornate desk are rattling and levitating off the surface. 

“Then _beg_.” 

The teen‘s voice holds a note of cold steel in it that the older man had never heard before as he bites out, “Unbind it. Now.” 

“As you wish,” the headmaster agrees with a nod, “and once again I am truly sorry.”

With a complicated pattern, the elderly wizard waves his wand and unbinds Harry’s magic.

To him, it looks like Harry faintly glowed and then returned to normal. 

But for the teen it felt like someone had pressed a tuning fork to the base of his spine, he could feel his magic humming under his skin and pulsing with the beat of his heart. It was life-changing, it was intoxicating, it was Magic. 

Harry straightens up from where he has unconsciously hunched over as power courses through his veins and glares at the headmaster, “I don’t like that you did this to me, but I understand why you did it.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Standing up and walking towards the door; Harry says, “I just need time to cool down.”

At that he spun around and bolted from the office, not hearing the headmaster shout something as the door slammed at his back.

Harry runs.

Runs like the beasts of hell were on his heels, bolting through the halls as his mind raced.

_“I need space,” he thinks frantically, “I need freedom.”_

Eventually, to his surprise, he found himself at the quidditch pitch. 

_“I need to fly, I need more freedom, I need my broom.”_

Almost on its own, his wand flicks out and he summons his firebolt. As it comes flying towards him, Harry hops on and runs through a series of dangerous seeker maneuvers, each one pushing him to faster speeds and more risky dives and turns. 

The wind flows through his hair and makes his eyes water, but it isn’t enough.

Harry turns his broom north and _flies_. 

The firebolt is advertised as capable of accelerating from 0 to 150 miles per hour in ten seconds. When he thinks back at his frantic flight, Harry is sure he eeked out even more speed.

Inches above the black lake Harry reaches speeds he never had before, the wind ripping through his hair and tugging at his clothes, the spray of water from his passing stinging his face. 

As he flies faster and faster his worries peel off and are swept away in his wind stream, and Harry feels lighter

Eventually, he pulls up into a stop and turns around, lounging on his broom as he drifts aimlessly. 

Harry stares at Hogwarts, his school and his first real home, glimmering beautifully silhouetted against the dark Scottish sky as she was, and thinks to himself, “ _even with everything that happens. I still feel safe here.”_

As Harry drifts there in the idle winds of the Scottish night, something catches his attention, out of the corner of his eye a flicker of gold shimmers and he reaches out for the snitch instinctively and snags it. The golden ball unfolds as the transfiguration comes to an end, turning into a note with familiar flowing handwriting. 

_“Harry,_

_Once again I am truly sorry, and I hope to eventually earn your forgiveness._

_As it is past curfew I have attached to the bottom of this note blanket permission to violate curfew for the remainder of the year, as well as Restricted Section access to the library for you and two others as long as they are with you, this is not favoritism, as I will be granting Mr. Diggory the same privileges as a Champion._

_Get some rest my boy, you have a tournament to win, and I truly believe you have the potential to._

_Your Headmaster,_

_Albus Dumbledore._

_P.s. I would ask of you not to test any spells you learn on another person until you are certain of what they do. And to please find a safe and secure place to practice the more destructive ones. Perhaps an empty classroom or abandoned chamber?"_

Smirking slightly at Dumbledore’s vieled reference to the Chamber of Secrets, Harry points his broom back to the castle, his home, and flies.

* * *

“Bombarda is a charm that induces an explosion or a detonation in its target.”

Flitwick is standing on his podium at the front of the charms classroom, staring out at his students with an uncharacteristically stern glare. 

“It is a dangerous charm when casting upon a living creature, often resulting in injuries or death,” the room sobers up at the diminutive professor’s words, “anyone found attacking another student with this charm will be suspended at best, and arrested at worst.”

“Now,” the half-goblin claps his hands together excitedly, “One of the reasons we have moved to this classroom is due to the individual wards around workstations. When I tap this rune you will all be sealed behind a protective barrier as you attempt these spells, shielding you all from harm.”

As he finishes up his speech, Flitwick taps the room and shimmering shields pop into being between the desks.

“It's incantation is simply, ‘Bombarda’ with a modifier ‘Maxima’ which can be used to boost the power for a more powerful yet more draining spell. The wand movements are a sharp upside-down V, with your want pointing at the target at the end of the V.”

As students begin miming the wand movement, Flitwick calls out one last time, “you will not be using the maxima modifier today, and please put as little power into this as you can, I’d rather not see my classroom destroyed,” the professor chuckles to himself, “You may begin.”

Muffled cracks and explosions echo across the classroom as Harry’s classmates attempt to cast Bombarda, some more capably than others, Harry thinks, watching Neville and Ron’s spells turn their target purple and produce the noise of a whoopie cushion respectively.

Harry regards his target warily, the small stone bowl that sits unassumingly on the table, as he twirls his wand idly between his fingers.

This will be the first spell Harry has cast with his freshly unbound core, and given how magic is practically singing at his fingertips, he’d be willing to bet that the power he wants to instinctively put into the spell would have disastrous consequences.

Coming to a decision, and pooling the amount of power he’d use for a mid-level Lumos into his hand, Harry whips his wand in a sharp upside-down V and intones, “Bombarda!”

Where before he had to push his magic through his wand, it now flows as easily as water, and Harry should have throttled it back.

But he didn’t, and the spell explodes from his wand with the force of a grenade, vaporizing his target, knocking Harry off his chair, destroying the wards around the desks, and blasting the other students and Flitwick back.

Blinking the stars out of his vision, Harry takes in the chaos that is the charms classroom, not a single piece of furniture intact, with streaks of smoke and ash on the walls and faces of his classmates who are either staring or glaring at him.

“ _I might need to practice some control,”_ he thinks dazedly, with an astounding amount of understatement, staring at the carnage as Flitwick fusses at him, lips moving but no sound making it through Harrys damaged eardrums.

  
  


* * *

Badges colored venomous green flash the words, “Potter Stinks,” at him.

Slytherins sneer and Hufflepuffs glare at him. 

Walking through the halls feels like wading through war, he has become very good at dodging spells and shielding. 

The more his classmates insult him the more withdrawn he gets, spending time with Hermione and occasionally Neville in the library researching the tournament. 

It feels odd to not be under the cloak or a notice-me-not charm.

Harry is _alone._

* * *

  
  


Flying down the serpentine tunnel down to the Chamber of Secrets is an infinitely better experience than sliding down the slime-covered walls, though harry mused that if they were clean and he wasn’t in a life or death situation, it would probably be quiet fun.

The cave-in where Lockhart’s obliviation backfired is still in place but with a wave of his wand Harry transfigures the rubble into a more stable archway, one that looks decidedly plain next to the filigree on the walls of the tunnel.

The entrance to the inner chamber isn’t as intimidating as Harry remembers, maybe it's his newfound powers, maybe it's Dumbledore’s shared knowledge, or maybe it's just the fact that no giant snake is waiting to eat him and his best friend’s sister dying.

Whatever it is, the parselmouth doesn't hesitate to hiss, “oppppen,” at the intertwined snakes on the wall, the hidden door to the chamber opening with the grinding of stone.

The basilisk is even bigger than Harry remembers, over seventy feet long with a gaping maw stretched as wider than Harry is tall.

Aside from the skinned stretch tighter over its bones, and the blood dried to a dull brown instead of vibrant red, and the bits of skin hanging from it's mangled eyes, the beast looks just the same as when Harry thrust the Sword of Gryffindor through its skull.

His hand unconsciously rubs the scar where the basilisk’s venomous fang had pierced his arm, the phantom pain of the most powerful venom in the world coursing through his veins echoing through him.

Popping his wand out of his holster in a deft movement, Harry raises it and pours all the power he can muster into two spells as he casts Reparo and Scourgify in quick succession, the power forced into the spells humming as they leave his wand.

The chamber reassembles itself in front of him. The rubble from his fight with the basilisk floating back onto the pillars, the snakes wrapped around them gleaming as hundreds of years of mold and grime are scrubbed off of them. Magic sweeps over Slytherins bust, removing built-up moss and vines tangled in his scraggly beard. Torches and torch holders appear from nowhere on the walls and the crumbled ledges of the pools that flank the walkway repair themselves, solid borders instead of broken ridges.

A muttered incantation sends bluebell flames flitting to the torches, and as the chamber lightens, torchlight flickering in the pools of water and Harry’s eyes.

The Boy-Who-Lived grins and says to himself, surveying his new training area, “I think this will work just fine.”  
  


* * *

_“The restricted section at night has a peculiar vibe,”_ Harry thinks as he sits in a corner of the library under a notice-me-not charm, a stack of books hidden under his invisibility cloak as he peruses books on advanced defense magic. Some of the books whisper in the night, and picking up the wrong one will kick off a caterwauling charm, but it's not an uncomfortable place to be.

It's quite relaxing after the day he’s had. Harry had been impressed with the actions of Aberforth in his and Dumbledore’s shared memories, in contrast to Albus’ refined elegance in his spellcasting, Aberforth’s dueling had a physicality to it that was impressive, dodging and weaving offset by simple yet effective spells. A manner of dueling that harry thought he could emulate to great effect. So he had taken to exercising in the Chamber of Secrets. His core was in decent shape due to his quidditch training, but Harry’s legs and arms ache, so he is glad to sit and rest as he reads.

He’s halfway through a book on experiments with elemental magic, specifically storms, and great winds when something catches his eye.

Or rather, something doesn't catch his eye.

He’s scanning the shelves as he does periodically, keeping an eye out for patrolling professors and Filch when his eyes skip over a portion of the shelves of their own accord.

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Harry scans the shelves again, this time skipping over a section a couple of feet to the left.

Subtly drawing his wand and casting a silent Finite, Harry has to bite back a bark of laughter as the notice-me-not that was shrouding his bushy-haired best friend as she peruses the shelves of the restricted section dissipates without her notice.

Casting a quick silencing charm at the end of the aisle and gathering his breath, preparing a poor imitation of McGonagall’s Scottish brogue, Harry sternly calls out, “Miss Granger! Just what are you doing out of bed at 3 am?!”

Hermione jumps an astounding height in the air, and turns around frantically, “I'm so sorry professor! I was just-”

The witch catches sight of Harry, rolling around on the floor seemingly dying of laughter and her excuses sputter to a stop.

“Harry,” she shouts angrily, “What was that for, what are you doing here!?”

The raven-haired teen straightens up, wiping the tears of laughter out of his eyes as he responds, “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question, Miss Granger? I seem to remember you mentioning something about being expelled is worse than death a couple of years ago, and now you’re sneaking out of bounds?”

Harry shakes his head mockingly, a silly grin on his face, ‘For shame, you were such a good example to the firsties.”

A book slams into his arm and Harry lets out a yelp, “Easy! I’ll stop making fun of you.”

“Good,” Hermione sniffs imperiously, “I came here to do some research, it's so hard to get a restricted section pass.”

“Well, you’re welcome to sit and read with me, Miss Granger,” Harry tells his friend, gesturing to the chair next to him.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione says, plucking up a book and plopping into the chair.

“I’m sorry we haven’t been talking more, it's just that I’ve been trying to talk Ron out of being an idiot, I just don't understand why he won’t believe you,” Hermione throws up her hands exasperatedly.

“It's okay,” Harry assures her easily, “Convincing Ron is a full-time job.”

“Besides,” he says, “I haven’t exactly been reaching out to people, I’ve been pretty consumed by this tournament stuff.

The pair lapsed into an easy silence that had always been a staple of their friendship when not involved in evil plots and deadly situations.

"Harry?" Hermione asks, after several minutes of sneaking glances at the last Potter.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Are you okay?" the witch shuffles her feet, uncharacteristically nervous, "you've been acting... differently."

Raising one eyebrow, he asks, "What do you mean, Miss Granger?"

"That! that right there, you're calling me Miss Granger and spouting wise sayings and advanced magic and things," with her hands waving around she focuses on him again, "What's going on?"

Thinking back, he quickly realizes what has happened, too much of Dumbledore is bleeding through, more than he's comfortable with. Harry resolves to meditate more on his identity and turns to Hermione. 

With a disarming grin he evades, "I've probably been spending to much time with Dumbledore, sorry 'Mione. I'll try to be more aware."

Sitting down, looking relieved, Hermione grins.

"Thanks, Harry. I'm glad you're getting help from Dumbledore, but don't change too much okay?"

"Of course Hermione."

They sit and just read their books in each other's company, enjoying the silence and companionship.

Harry grins softly, thinking to himself, _"this is the best part about Hogwarts, outside of magic, the friends."_

“Harry, whats that you are reading there?”

Hermione’s voice cuts through the silence once again, and Harry angles the book towards her in response.

“Just a book on elemental magic.”

“Harry,” Hermione gives him an odd look, “That book is in Greek, what the hell is going on?!”

The shock of Hermione cursing, and the fact that he had learned Greek from Dumbledore without realizing, and had been reading a book in it, stuns Harry.  
“Uhh,” he says dumbly, “I’m not at liberty to say?”

The exasperated screech that bounces off the bookshelves makes Harry glad he hadn’t taken down the silencing charm yet.

* * *

A striking head of blonde hair keeps popping up out of the corner of Harry’s eye after he leaves class and before he puts on the cloak.

Harry thought at first that it was Malfoy, but the boy who would be his nemesis if it weren’t for Voldemort, Pettigrew, Snape, most of the Death Eaters- and wow he has far too many enemies for a fourteen-year-old -was always in sight in front of him.

Harry keeps a weather eye out but doesn't figure out the identity of his stalker, and shrugs off his suspicions, whoever it is would approach him eventually. He just has to wait them out.

* * *

“Harry isn’t a liar and he didn’t cheat!”

As Harry steps through the portrait and into the Gryffindor common room, still cloaked in a Notice-Me-Not charm, he is greeted by an unusual sight. 

Neville is standing in the middle of the common room facing off against a fifth-year flanked by two sixth-years, all in the faction of Gryffindors who were angry they didn’t get chosen by the Goblet, one of which was the brute Cormac Mclaggen, a hostile fool who has disliked Harry for years because of quidditch reasons.

Harry takes in his quiet friend’s stance, shoulders tense, wand gripped tightly, and can just tell that the other boy thought this was gonna end in hexes. 

As if to confirm his thoughts, Mclaggen taunts, “shows what you know, Longbottom, you squib,” and as one the three aggressors raised their wands and fired a Body-Bind, Jelly-Legs, and a stinging hex respectively at the nervous fourth year. 

Neville tries valiantly to dodge and return fire but the body bind catches him and Harry barely managed to hiss out a cushioning charm on the floor before the teen slams into it. 

Whipping around Harry transfigures the sixth year on the left’s shoes into the floor and casts a bludgeoner that sends his top half backward, knocking him out when his head cracks onto the floor while his legs remain stuck to the floor. In one fluid motion, in two quick jabs of his wand, a stunner and an Incarcerous are sent towards the sixth year on the right.

To Harry’s surprise jets of light come from the opposite direction as the Weasley twins appear in his view and take out Mclaggen. 

The duel, if you could call the slaughter that, was over as quickly as it started. 

The common room stares on in amazement as the spellfire comes to a stop, whispers of, “Where did he come from,” and “Bloody hell! How is he so quick,” coming from all sides.

Ignoring the whispers, Harry mutters the counter and helps Neville up as he surveys the twin’s target, covered in tentacles, and wincing in pain every few seconds. 

  
  


“Does anyone else have a problem with me!?”

Harry raises his voice and addresses the common room as Fred and George come and stand on either side of him and Neville.

“If you do, I don't care,” he stares down the common room sternly and angrily, “But if you want to say something about it, or do something about it, then you take it up with me.”

Hermione stands up and falls in next to them, arms crossed and looking at the crowd, stern disappointment on her face.

“Leave my friends out of it,” Harry says, “Or you’ll have to answer to me.”

The common room collectively stiffens in fear, suddenly remembering how quick his spells had been and how he was considered the main suspicious attacker in his second year.

“And us,” Fred and George pipe up, with Hermione nodding in agreement.

Ron pointedly doesn't meet harry’s eyes as his piercing green gaze surveys the room.

“Well?” Harry demands, “Does anyone have anything to say?”

Ginny flashes him a thumbs-up as no one answers, and Harry ends his impromptu speech with, “Fine, bugger off then.”

  
  
  


Ignoring Hermione’s half-hearted “language, Harry,” Harry asks the twins, “What did you hit Mclaggen with?” as he summons the attacker’s wands and sticks them to the ceiling. 

As Fred swaps some of the fake wands they had made for the real ones, George answers, “A continuous stinging hex on my end and a Furnuculus on Fred’s”

“Continuous stinging hex?” Harry asks, intrigued. 

“A modifier you learn for minor spells in the sixth-year, it hits him with a stinging hex every five seconds,” Fred comments, turning the trio’s hair orange.

“Good on you, Neville!” The twins say in unison, clapping the teen on the shoulder as they meander off. 

“I’m sorry Harry,” the morose teen apologizes, looking at his wand glumly, “I tried to hex them but it didn’t work, I don’t deserve to be in Gryffindor.”

Ignoring Harry’s reassurances otherwise, Neville mutters to himself, “I’m not much of a wizard, maybe I am a squib.”

“That’s enough of that,” Harry says in a sharp voice, “that you stood up to them now, and stood up to us in the first year proves that you’re brave enough for Gryffindor. And you’re a genius at herbology, of course, you’re a wizard.”

When the other teen didn’t seem to get any happier, Harry changes tacts.

“Come with me.”

Ignoring Neville’s puzzled look, he leads the teen through the halls and to the second-floor girl's bathroom. 

As the raven-haired teen checks to see if the coast was clear and leads him inside, Neville asks, “Um, Harry. What is this?”

Ignoring the question Harry asks one of his own.

“Do you trust me, Neville?”

At the shy teen's nod of assent, he hands him a black blindfold. 

“Put this on.”

Neville complies, and hears hissing and then the grinding of large stones together.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask another question, he floats into the air and lets out a yelp. 

“Relax, Neville,” he hears Harry call, “you’ll be fine, just a bit of a ride.”

And with that wind began whipping across Neville’s face as the air began getting damper and colder. 

_“Where are we going, we were in a bathroom??”_

He seemingly levels out and hears crunching footsteps before they suddenly stop. 

He hears hissing once more, then more grinding stones and an ominous _clunk_ before he is suddenly standing again, and Harry calls for him to remove his blindfold.

“Welcome,” Harry exclaims, a roguish grin on his face, “to Salazar Slytherin’s refuge deep beneath the castle. Welcome to the Chamber of Secrets!”

Neville’s mouth is hanging open, but no words are coming out.

Conjured flames line the walls, sending light flickering off the pools of water and glistening edifices that make up the main chamber. At the end is a massive bust of who he can only guess was Slytherin himself.

In one corner stands vials of venomous green liquid and a trunk that seemed to be full of snake hide. In the middle of the chamber is the most impressive thing yet, a giant snake skeleton that is seventy-foot long at _minimum_. Its skeletal mouth gaping in what seems to be a hungry grin and in front of it is its slayer, Harry Potter, eyes alight with mischief and giggling at Neville’s awestruck face. 

Harry watches as Neville’s mouth finally catches up with his brain and he exclaims, “Bloody Hell!”

“You are the third wizard to be here knowingly in over 100 years,” Harry says, suddenly solemn again, and in the answer of Neville’s unspoken question, “Me, Voldemort, and now you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Neville asks, voice still shaky. 

“You needed a wake-up call,” Harry starts pacing, “to be a part of something no one else is. And this is where I’ve been training for the tournament. I’m going to teach you in transfiguration and defense. And you’re going to be the best wizard you can be. Alright, Neville?”

Neville’s gaze firms, his shoulders straighten, and a hint of the wizard Harry knows he could be shines through the cracks as if Harry’s words have lit a fire in his soul, “Alright, I will.”

And with that, they get to it. 

* * *

For two hours Harry drills Neville on Protego and the blasting curse. At the same time, he is practicing his advanced transfiguration; dogs and stags canter around him as he guides Neville and does push-ups, Harry’s attention split between his friend’s attempts and his conjurations.

After the first half-hour, the nervous teen has the wand movements and incantations down pat. Yet for some reason, his results vary wildly. 

Sometimes the shields will hold waveringly, sometimes they’ll be blindingly strong, and other times they won’t form at all. 

Similarly, his Bombardas alternate between wall breaking and sputtering out with naught but a sharp noise. 

As Harry moves on to his control practice, casting spells he already knew well at varying levels of strength, he ponders the mystery. 

As Neville flubs a protego again and shouts in irritation, Harry intervenes. 

“Neville, what’s your wand core?”

“Ash and Unicorn hair, it was my dad's first and it was passed to me.”

As the boy rambles about how it was an honor to wield his dad's wand and how his grandmother gave it to him, Harry’s mind catches on two facts. 

  1. The wand chooses the wizard.
  2. Ash wands are particularly stubborn and only work for the ones they’ve chosen. 



The first he had picked up from Ollivander, the wandmaker, and the second he knew not from where it came. 

He tries to explain this to Neville but the other teen refuses to hear it, insisting that it is a great honor to wield his dad’s wand.

Harry tries to argue that he wasn’t his dad and neither was Neville, they were a combination of their parents so logically it wouldn't work as well, but eventually, they had to agree to disagree.

* * *

“Demonstrate a spell you have learned, Harry.”

Things between him and the headmaster are still slightly frosty, but they had continued his mentorship arrangement nonetheless.

Nodding his assent, Harry swings his wand and conjures a flame whip, which he wraps around a conjured target and runs through a series of manipulations. Once Dumbledore is satisfied with his control, he nodded and Harry lets the flames drop.

As they both sit and enjoy a cup of tea Dumbledore speaks up.

“Before you go, my boy, be ready for the weighing of the wands in three days. Mr. Ollivander will come to the castle to ensure that all champions' wands are in perfect functioning condition for the three Tasks ahead.

“Okay, sir.”

A bolt of inspiration strikes Harry like lightning.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“When the wandmaker is here if it is alright with you, could he match a student with a wand if the one they are using hasn’t chosen them.”

“I'm sure he would be delighted to,” the headmaster muses, “yes I will allow it, but you must write to him and see if he will do it.”

“Of course sir! I will do that now,” Harry says, bidding Dumbledore goodbye and darting out of the office.

As he leaves, Harry thinks he catches a glimpse of something like pride in the headmaster’s twinkling eyes.

* * *

  
  


The Weighing of the Wands is… informative.

Harry learns that Fleur Delacour is indeed part Veela, and makes a note to tell Ron before remembering the rift in their friendship.

He learns that Viktor Krum has an affinity to air, “ _no surprise there,”_ and his wand denotes him as temperamental and headstrong.

He learns that Cedric Diggory’s wand denotes him as loyal and fair, which pretty much aligns with Harry’s observations.

He can’t remember where he learned about wand lore. But Harry puts the thought out of his mind. 

He learns that Rita Skeeter is a foul excuse for a human being. She fabricates an entire interview with him and then snubs the other champions during the pictures afterward! Harry’s temper is frayed prompting him to attempt to calm his mind as everyone shuffles out of the room, leaving only the Boy-Who-Lived, the Headmaster, and the Wandmaker, standing with an ornate trunk in between them.

As he revels in the silence, Harry is startled by Dumbledore asking where his friend is, and Harry abruptly remembers he forgot to tell Neville anything about his plan.

“Hmmm, Mr. Longbottom would be in Transfiguration now, wouldn't he,” Dumbledore asks when harry tells him this, “I thought that was who you meant, so I had informed Minerva in advance so why don't you send a message to him.”

Quizzically Harry asks, “How would I do that, Professor?”

“You know the Patronus charm do you not,” the headmaster asks, a twinkle in his eye, “visualize imbuing a message into it, and will it to go to the recipient of your choice and it will do the rest.”

Concentrating hard, Harry mutters, “Expecto Patronum,” and ignores the gasp of Ollivander when a blinding Prongs emerges from his wand.

Muttering his message, Harry watches as the apparition of his father’s alter ego canters through the wall.

“That is an advanced spell, Mr. Potter,” the slightly raspy voice of the Wandmaker sounds from behind the boy, making him jump slightly, “I will not deny that seeing that you are capable of such advanced magic as that eases my worry about you in the tournament.”

Sending a slightly puzzled glance at Ollivander Harry says, “I didn’t think it was that advanced. I have been doing it since last year and it has only gotten easier.”

“It is a post NEWT charm, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s mind reels, he hadn't thought it was that advanced of a spell, just esoteric and rarely taught. Lost in thought he absently says, “Please call me Harry, Mr. Potter is tedious.”

“Harry here was a bit of a prodigy in that regard,” Headmaster Dumbledore says, a note of pride in his voice, “I think many will be surprised and impressed with his actions in the tournament.”

Before anyone comments on the blush that stains Harry's face, a knock comes from the door, and following Dumbledore’s, “Come in,” Neville steps shyly into the room.

“Headmaster, Mr. Ollivander,” Neville acknowledges with more confidence than he would have weeks before. He then looks at Harry and asks, “what's going on?” 

Explaining why Ollivander was here, and taking in Neville's face growing in anger, Harry quickly interjects.

“If you try all the wands, and still want to go with your dad’s, I will drop this and never bring it up again,” ignoring the sharp look from Ollivander he rushes on, “But please at least try it.”

Neville was silent for a moment before he sullenly agrees, “Okay, Harry.”

Ollivander claps his hands together and says, “Splendid! Mr. Longbottom if you would try this wand, 11 inches, hawthorn, and Dragon heartstring.” 

The wand pairing goes on getting longer and longer, nearing the time it took for Harry to find his own.

Dumbledore sidles up to the raven-haired teen, “This was a good thing to do for your friend, Harry. It is important to have a proper wand and I believe it will help young Neville’s confidence.”

“Thank you,” Harry nodded, “I hope it will.”

An elevated comment from Ollivander draws Harry’s attention, in an odd tone the wandmaker hands a pale wand to the other teen in an oddly reverential manner, “Perhaps… perhaps this one.”

Neville accepts the wand and gives it a wave. An unseen wind blows through the room and a glow forms around the wand. 

Harry looks at his friend’s face and sees several emotions flit across it, awe, happiness, and regret.

“Yes.” Ollivander hums, “I do believe we have found the one.”

Neville looks to Harry and says, “I think I will use this one, it just feels leagues above my dad’s.”

Seeing hesitation in his friend’s face Harry says, “you can still honor him, you know? Frame his wand and be the best wizard you can be.”

Looking around and seeing the headmaster and wandmaker nodding in agreement, Neville turns to Ollivander sheepishly, “I don't have any Galleons though.”

“I do,” Harry says with a smile, tossing seven to the wandmaker.

“I'll pay you back. Thanks, Harry,” Neville replies, a depth to his words they all hear, “for everything.”

“It is curious,” Ollivander suddenly intones, and Harry flashes back to his wand pairing when the wandmaker had said the same thing, “this wand, Yew and Unicorn Hair, 13 inches. The tree I obtained this wand’s wood from went up in flames during a storm, not long after I obtained the wood for only two wands from it.” 

Harry, with a sudden sense of foreboding, knew what the wandmaker was about to say.

“The other wand, this one's sister you could say,” the wandmaker continues, “held the only other Phoenix feather from the one that resides in Harry's wand. The owner of that wand was Tom Riddle.”

“Voldemort,” Harry growls.

“I have the only wand that shares a wood with Voldemort,” Neville stutters, slightly terrified.

“Our wands are like cousins, Neville,” Harry jokes, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

Ignoring Harry, Ollivander said, “Yes, and he did great things, terrible, but great things with that wand. And you will do great things too Mr. Longbottom,” the wandmaker fixed his pale stare on the teen, “great things indeed.”

* * *

Lost in thought as he was, thinking about the ramifications of Neville’s wand, Harry didn’t notice the blonde head of hair following him through the corridors until it was too late. 

_“Shit,”_ he thinks, slipping into a secret passage the instant he rounds a corner and is out of their sight, _“I forgot my Notice-Me-Not._ ”

Sprinting down the passage till he comes out in a classroom slightly behind them, Harry silenced himself and cracks the door open, observing his stalker.

Daphne Greengrass stomps down the corridor, a look of irritation on her face as she groans in exasperation.

* * *

“I can’t believe I lost him again,” growls the so-called “Ice Queen” of Slytherin 

To her surprise, a force grabs onto her and drags Daphne into a classroom in her left, and before she can blink the door is slammed behind her and she is pushed against the wall by a magical force. 

The Gryffindor golden boy is there, electric green eyes staring into her soul as he points his wand at her, the tip glowing red as he growls, “Why have you been following me, Greengrass?”

She ignores his question, instead, aiming to be more in control than Potter, despite being unnerved by his gaze and his mastery of the situation. 

“You’re a hard man to find Potter,” she comments, “I’ve been trying to find you for weeks but you’re like a ghost between classes.”

“Why?” He asks, his wand heating up with the power of a stunner. 

“Because I believe you when you say you didn’t enter.”

The glowing tip of his wand dims but it stays pointed unwaveringly at her throat.

At his nod, she continues, “Year after year crazy things happen and you are at the center of it all every time. I’ve been watching you this year and something changed. You’re more confident and self-assured, and you’ve improved in power and in class.”

Raising her chin and staring him down in return, Daphne said, “I want to offer my help, and myself as an ally.”

Contemplating her answer, Harry lowers his wand slightly but does not put it away. 

“You want something from me,” he states baldly, “you’d never approach without wanting something in return.”

“Why do you think that,” Daphne asks, annoyed at the smirk that sprouts on his face. 

“You’re the quintessential Slytherin, Miss, Greengrass,” he quips, “and you seem to be operating under the assumption that I’m the quintessential Gryffindor.”

Daphne's eyes dart down to his wand as it twitches a little, and she refrains from reaching for her own. 

“Why so suspicious, Potter?”

Raising an eyebrow in a manner eerily reminiscent of Snape, the git replies, “I have been entered into a deadly tournament against my will by someone who possibly means to kill me, who has access to the goblet and so also the school, and you wonder why I'm paranoid?”

“Fair point,” Daphne says, conceding that was a bit of a stupid question, “Would you have me make a magical oath to prove my truthfulness?”

“What is that.”

The look of icy calm on her face morphs into one of disbelief. 

“You know, one step down from Unbreakable Vows?”

“That means nothing to me,” Harry replies with a bemused expression.

“Were you raised under a rock!? Every magical child knows what Oaths and Vows are, it's taught by parents or guardians, how can you not know this?”

“I was muggle raised, Miss Greengrass.”

You would have thought a stunner struck her between the eyes with how still Daphne goes, shock making her blurt out, “What?”

The arrogant Gryffindor shrugs. 

“How? You’re Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. Last son of the House of Potter. How can you be raised with muggles it makes no sense,” she mutters, pacing back and forth as the force keeping her to the wall lets up. 

“There is a reason that I was raised there, and despite my dislike of the situation, I can tell you it’s… necessary,” Potter explains, fingers now twirling his wand idly as his face contorts into an expression of distaste. 

Daphne opens her mouth to go on another rant before he cuts her off. 

“The oath, Miss Greengrass. Explain.”

“A magical oath is sworn on something, usually on life or magic in more serious situations. It is enforced by magic and the repercussions of breaking it are immediate.”

“You know,” the Gryffindor comments, “that’s interesting and all, but you never did explain what you want from me.”

Daphne stands up straight, chin raised. A Greengrass does not beg, and she certainly won’t as she requests something. 

“Teach me how you improved so quickly, how you got so powerful,” she commands. 

Potter stills, the wand coming to a stop as he considers her request. 

A small amused smirk steals across his face as he answers, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” Daphne exclaims heatedly, eyes flashing in irritation, “do you think you’re better than me Potter? Is that it? Or do you want me to crawl to you like every other pretty girl and beg.”

His face goes hard at her last comment and Daphne winces as her anger gets the better of her, and she resorts to the classic Slytherin tactic, taunting, “or are you too arrogant to let others learn or come close to your level?”

“I look for friends, Miss Greengrass,” his tone sharp as glass as it cuts through her tirade, “not sycophants, not followers. No one crawls to me and no one has to beg for my aid.”

His gaze pierces her like a sword and Daphne can’t help but feel ashamed for some reason. 

She opens her mouth to issue an apology, but a raised hand cuts her off.

“Tell you what,” the fourth Triwizard champion says, “if you manage to hex me, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Daphne feels irritation build up behind her forehead, but she draws her wand as she draws her wand and grits out, “Fine.”

She falls into a classic dueling stance as Potter eyes her idly, a placid look on his face as he twirls that damn wand. 

“Are you not going to prepare,” Daphne asks, annoyed that Potter is not taking this seriously. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Potter smirks knowingly, still leaned against the wall with his legs crossed. 

“ _He’s patronizing me_ ,” Daphne thinks, seeing red, “ _I’ll show him_.”

Drawing back her wand, Daphne casts Anteoculatia and a body bind.

Or rather, attempts to.

As the magic flows through her wand, the length of wood lets out a squawk and transforms into a rubber chicken in her grasp.

"What,” Daphne exclaims, looking up at Potter who is now stood up straight and smiling widely, his wand in his hand wagging mockingly.

“My, my, Miss Greengrass,” he comments smugly, “Anteoculatia is a rather nasty hex.”

Daphne suddenly recognizes that the wand he’s been twirling this entire time is her wand, the cherry wood, and vinework standing out.

“Give me back my wand, Potter,” she growls.

The Gryffindor just looks at her mildly, “Or what, you’ll hex me?”

Daphne screams in frustration and flings the fake wand at Potter, but before it makes it halfway between them, the Gryffindor’s wand darts out, and a bright flash of light blinds her.

Daphne blinks the sunspots out of her eyes at the same time as the pair of wands hit the floor, her wand, and the rubber chicken, with Potter nowhere to be seen.

Looking around wildly, and darting out into the hallway to see if Potter was out there, Daphne suppresses another scream of frustration and grumbles to herself, “Stupid Potter, stupid idiot Gryffindors.

So obsessed with her plans of revenge on Potter, Daphne doesn't see the electric blue butterfly winging towards her until it alights on her arm.

Looking down in surprise, the blonde Slytherin is shocked when it unfolds itself into a note.

“ _Miss Greengrass,_

_If you were truly serious about your offer of allyship and aide, please meet me in the abandoned classroom across from Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom tomorrow night at 7._

_Be prepared to explain magical oaths to someone as ill-informed as I.”_

The note is signed with a stylized lightning bolt, and underneath is a postscript.

_“P.s._

_It might benefit you to wear clothes you are not afraid to get dirty in.”_

Daphne reads the letter once, twice, and then a third time before it vanishes into thin air as the magic that had conjured it dissipated.

“I do not understand Gryffindors,” she says out loud to the deserted corridor, ignoring the part of herself that whispers, “ _or maybe I just don't understand Potter.”_  
  
  


* * *

“So, explain to me about magical oaths.”

Daphne stares down Potter in the middle of an abandoned classroom on the second floor.

The Gryffindor golden boy had outmaneuvered her the previous day and during Daphne’s rant to her friend and roommate Tracey Davis last night the Slytherin girl had sworn that it wouldn’t happen again.

Taking a deep breath, Daphne begins her explanation, “A magical oath is usually sworn on one’s life or magic in more serious situations, or in less serious, a prized heirloom or the ability to do magic for a certain time. It is enforced by magic and the repercussions of breaking it are immediate.”

Potter nods, and Daphne takes that as understanding and continues, “Oaths can be used to enforce honesty, prove a claim, or bind people to a set of guidelines.”

“I’m forced to take part in this tournament due to a magical contract,” Potter interjects, “is that similar?”

“Yes and no,” Daphne explains, actually beginning to enjoy knowing more than him, “A magical contract and magical oath can be used to do the same things, but oaths are always verbal and excepting when they’re sworn on magic or life they can technically be subverted or fooled depending on the wording.”

Daphne sees hope bloom in the other teen’s eyes and shuts it down with her finishing statement, “But it's difficult, and usually impossible if worded well.”

“Well that’s unfortunate,” Potter sighs, rubbing his scar absently, “You said you’d swear an oath to prove that you mean no harm. Do you still mean it?”

Daphne weighs her options, and with a raised chin looks him directly in his shockingly green eyes, “I do.”

“Time to put your money where your mouth is then, Miss Greengrass,” Potter says, gesturing her to proceed, “I will tell and show you nothing more until you swear to keep my secrets.”

They spend several minutes debating on the wording of the oath shes to make, and they eventually settle on one that Daphne believes is strict enough to protect Potter’s secrets while also proving her trustworthiness without compromising her.

Raising an eyebrow as they come to a consensus, Daphne asks him, “what would you have me swear on, Potter?”

Potter seems to ponder for a moment, and the Slytherin girl silently hopes that he won’t ask her to swear on something too severe, she wants to learn how he’s progressed so rapidly.

“Swear on your wand.”

Daphne lets out a mental sigh of relief, at the end of the day, though it would be painful to do so, wands are replaceable.

“Very well,” raising her wand she begins the oath. 

“I, Daphne Anne Greengrass, first daughter of Jacob and Calista Greengrass, do swear on my wand that I mean Harry James Potter no harm and am truthful in my intent to aid him in his endeavors, I swear to guard the secrets he reveals until he tells me otherwise. So mote it be.”

With the final line, her wand tip flashes a brilliant white and they both shudder as Daphne feels some force sweep over her. 

  
  


Potter’s hand flicks out, and suddenly his wand is in his grasp, causing Daphne to flinch.

Giving her an odd look, the Gryffindor raises his wand and to Daphne’s surprise begins swearing his oath.

“I, Harry James Potter, first son of James and Lily Potter, do swear on my wand that I will tell Daphne Anne Greengrass the truth for the remainder of our meeting. So mote it be.”

Potter’s wand flashes white and Daphne feels the force run over her again.

Nodding imperiously, but inwardly stunned, Daphne says, “Thanks for that, Potter.”

“Now tell me how you’ve improved so quickly.”

A grimace passes over the scarred teen’s face and he tells her, “There are two parts, one of which you’re not going to like because I can’t tell you the specifics.”

“I don't care,” Daphne replies, “I want to know.”

“Earlier in the term, I had a binding removed from my core,” Potter explains, “Do you remember when I blew up the charms classroom?”

Outwardly, Daphne makes no reaction other than a nod, but internally her eyebrows are raised to astonishing heights. A binding? At his age? It's practically unheard of for a child’s magic to be bound after the age of five, and an adult’s core is too large to bind safely.

That also explains the rumors she had heard about the charms classroom’s destruction. One’s magic is often volatile after being unbound, so it's no surprise that Potter had some trouble.

“That explains the power boost,” Daphne comments, “but not your improved skill.”

“All I can tell you is that I’ve been having Occlumency lessons,” Potter replies in the face of her implacable curiosity, “and that they are the reason I’ve improved so much.”

“Occlumency?”

Daphne cannot keep the incredulity out of her voice, Occlumency is an incredibly rare skill, as far as she was aware there were only thirty people in Britain who can use it in any capacity, mostly Unspeakables. It's also a skill that’s difficult to learn before one is of age and is generally considered dark magic. It is certainly not what Daphne had expected the Gryffindor golden boy to admit to.

“That’s some rather rare and dark magic, Potter,” she says, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was rare,” Potter replies with a raised eyebrow, “and as for it being dark, there are precious few bits of magic that are inherently dark, and Occlumency is not one of them.”

And wasn’t that a stance she hadn’t expected from the other student, but Daphne pushes that thought aside in favor of a more pressing one, “Potter, Occlumency doesn't work that way, you can't learn new skills from it.”

Potter waves off her declaration, saying that, “I can assure you my method does, it's just that I’m not allowed to tell you how, or teach it to you.”

Daphne can feel her ire growing as she growls out, “I came here to learn, Potter, are you telling me I’ve just been running in circles?”

“I told you that you wouldn’t be happy about my explanation,” Potter points out, and before she can snap something rude at him, he continues, “so I prepared something else for you.”

“What,” she bites out, thinking, _“it had better be good.”_

“Would you like to see the Chamber of Secrets, Miss Greengrass,” Potter asks, a smug grin spreading across his features as her jaw drops, “Is that good enough?”

* * *

Hagrid isn’t at all surreptitious when talking to someone under an invisibility cloak. 

But he owes it to the half-giant to meet him when he says. No matter how odd it seems. 

* * *

Dragons. 

Merlin. Fucking. Dragons 

“ _What’s the next task gonna be,”_ Harry thinks, slightly hysterically, “ _another basilisk?!_ ”

Harry knows somehow, with his peculiar brand of Potter luck, that he’ll end up facing the nastiest of the bunch. 

The Hungarian Horntail. 

* * *

Hermione’s righteous indignation at the first task is breathtaking. Conjuring targets in an abandoned classroom for her to take her frustration out on is the only way he keeps the irate witch from reenacting the infamous “Malfoy Punch” that had become somewhat of a legend in the Gryffindor tower, on Barty Crouch. 

* * *

Sirius advises the Conjunctivitis curse, but with a squeamish thought on burst eyeballs because of his still not completely under control magic, Harry pushes that for the last resort. 

* * *

Moody recommends flying, but Harry has learned by experience not to fully trust his defense professors, no matter how well-meaning or harmless they seem, “ _Sorry, Remus.”_

* * *

“Do you think I should tell Cedric?” Harry asks, in a lull of him and Neville’s spellcasting in the Chamber, “about the dragons that is.”

Catching his breath, the other teen wheezes out, “it depends. Are you just trying to survive this tournament, or are you trying to win it?”

Harry thinks back, on his thirst to prove himself, to be more than just the Boy-Who-Lived, to be Harry. 

"I’m going to win it,” he said with all the weight of a vow, green eyes flashing.

“Then keep your advantage and don't tell him,” Neville shrugs as if it was as simple as that.

  
  


* * *

He still warns Cedric, to be fair. 

After some deliberation, he also warns Fleur and Viktor to the grumbling of Daphne when she finds out. 

* * *

  
  
  


Harry steps into the stone arena, model Horntail in his pocket and the significantly bigger real one in front of him and the crowd goes silent.

Whether they're scared for him or waiting for him to fail he knows not, but he puts those thoughts out of the way in the face of the menacing lizard.

Putting the tip of his wand to his throat, while still keeping a wary eye on the dragon, he mutters, “Sonoros.”

Feeling the voice amplification spell take hold he begins talking to the crowd.

"I would like to make an announcement,” he says.

“Mr. Potter,” Crouch’s sonorous cuts over him, “Your time is still being counted.”

“That’s okay,” Harry assures the officious man, sending a wink towards Daphne in the Slytherin section, “This will just take a moment.”

Collecting his thoughts, Harry begins recounting what he prepared.

“Since the beginning of this blasted tournament, I have protested my inclusion, I didn't enter, and I didn't want to.” 

Turning to the Hufflepuff section, black and yellow standing still under his gaze, he continues, “Your champion believes me, yet you still doubted me.”

“Well,” he says, coming to his point, “I have found a way to prove it to you all.”

Seeing Dumbledore’s eyes twinkling in mirth from the stands, he holds up his wand and begins his Oath.

“I, Harry James Potter, first son of Lily and James Potter, last son of the Potter family, the Boy-Who-Lived, do swear upon my life and my magic that I did not enter my name into this tournament, nor did I ask someone else to, nor did I ever intend to.” Stabbing his wand into the air he concludes it, “So mote it be.” 

A blinding flash of light rushes over the arena, and the crowd goes stock still. 

Every eye is trained on him as if waiting for him to drop dead, and once he doesn't, Harry speaks up again.

“As you can all see, I am still alive, however, if you still doubt it and want to see some magic,” a teasing lilt enters his voice as he asks his question.

With a grin on his face that makes anyone familiar with the Marauders shudder, he says, “ _Watch this._ ”

With a murmured, “Expecto Patronum” a giant ethereal stag erupts from his wand, and Prongs goes cantering around the arena, slowly beginning to circle the dragon in the center. 

The Horntail seems wary, keeping the bulk of its body between Harry and his Patronus is, and her eggs. Her slitted eyes are flicking back and forth between the boy and the stag. 

As Prongs nears the back of the arena, drawing the dragon's attention with it as it is the closer perceived threat, the Horntail turns it's body towards the Patronus, it's spiked tail facing Harry.

As the dragon’s attention is drawn, the second Harry dips out of her sight he whips his wand into motion. 

As fast as lightning, the shape of a star is sketched in the air and a quintet of Bombarda Maximas jet from his wand, raining down on the Horntail like missiles. 

Harry faintly hears the cries of the crowd as he bursts into action, Bagman’s shout of “Great Scott! He’s quick,” is drowned out as adrenaline pumps through his veins, his heart thumping in his ears as magic hums at his fingertips. 

The blasting curses bounce off the Horntail off it's back like water, the potent spells not affecting the beasts magic resistant scales other than to anger it as the dragon whips around and roars in anger. 

Harry has expected this though, hours of research on dragons and other magical creatures coming in handy, so as the spells ricochet off the dragon and shatter the ground of the arena, another rapid five Bombardas shatter the boulders in front of the Horntail, sending rock shards flying at its face. 

The dragon turns it's head to protect its eyes, and Harry takes advantage of the momentary distraction to collect the rubble into the forms wolves and birds of prey, and the transfigured creatures charge the dragon, a rocky Padfoot thrown in for good measure. 

Harry grimaces as the Horntail pulverizes his first plan with one swipe of its tail, shattering the wolves and roasting his transfigured birds out of the air with a blast of fire that he can feel from where he’s standing.

A second blast of flame sends him diving for cover behind a boulder, and Harry recalls a tidbit of information Hermione had unearthed while researching for the task.

Most adult dragons could breathe fire for over 45 seconds but the four sequestered for the tournament, the Welsh Green, Swedish Shortsnout, Chinese fireball, and Hungarian horntail could blast magical fire for over a minute, with the Horntail being capable of nearly a minute and a half of continuous blaze.

A minute and a half of this would melt the massive boulder he’s hidden behind, and Harry can already feel the hot stone singing his back.

To his relief, the Horntail stops its deluge of flame, letting Harry duck out from behind the boulder and take in the charred rocks and the ground melted glassy smooth.

A quick spell shatters the melted ground and with a sweep of his wand, Harry collects the jagged stone and banishes the pieces towards the dragon.

The Horntail shields itself and it's eggs, and by the time it looks up, Harry has vanished.

High up in the air as a result of his Ascendare spell, Harry clicks the button on his mental stopwatch as he begins to fall, putting his back up plan into motion.

In his practice at the quidditch pitch, it took about seven seconds to fall the 800 feet he had risen with his overpowered spell.

Just enough time for ten Bombarda Maximas and an Arresto Momentum to slow his fall.

As the Boy-Who-Lived plummets through the air towards a dragon, magic pouring from his wand and wind whipping through his hair, he can’t help but laugh ecstatically.

As dangerous as it all is, the magic, the fall, the battle, it is twice as exhilarating.

He hears Bagman shout something like, “Ooh, looks like Potter has missed his target,” as his Bombarda’s fall around the dragon, none hitting the Horntail or its nest, but Harry smirks.

_“They haven’t realized what I’m doing,”_ he thinks as he casts Arresto Momentum to slow his fall, grimacing in pain as he times it badly, landing awkwardly and with a bit too much force, twisting his ankle as he comes down from what would normally be a deadly fall.

He hadn’t been aiming directly at the dragon, just at the ground around her.

Of all the magic he had picked up from Dumbledore and his forays to the restricted section, one bit had stuck out in his mind than any other, the subject that both the headmaster and his father had been prodigies at, Transfiguration.

There is one thing that any caster proficient at Battle Transfiguration needs in abundance.

Material.

With a smirk, Harry sweeps his wand in a complicated circular motion, and in a feat of impressive nonverbal transfiguration, he slowly gathers all of the debris and shattered rock into tendrils of stone. 

Tentacles unfurl like the literary Kracken rising from the deep, they encircle the dragon and pin the Horntail’s wings to its sides. 

The mother dragon thrashes violently, it's tail cracking some of the binding stone bands before more rise and pin the appendage to the ground.

The stone tentacles continue wrapping around the snarling dragon until it is subdued, and the Horntail opens its mouth, the glowing light of impending flame blooming in its throat before it's snout is snapped shut by more tentacles.

Huffing and puffing smoke in anger, but immobilized in the middle of the arena, the dragon is still.

The crowd is silent. 

Harry feels himself go lightheaded, suddenly tired from the effort of a transfiguration well beyond what most wizards could do, but he shakes off the exhaustion and carefully picks his way towards the nest, one eye trained on the fuming dragon and the other on his golden prize. 

He picks up the egg and warily makes his way back towards the entrance. 

_“That took more effort than I thought it would,”_ he thinks, _“I need to get some pepper up potion before I do anything else.”_

Harry is about twenty feet from the exit to the arena when he hears the crowd gasp in terror, quickly followed by the cracking of stone. 

Knowing he has seconds before he became roasted Boy-Who-Lived, Harry spins around, robes flaring, golden egg in one hand and his wand in the other. 

He slashes upwards with his wand, making the stone floor in front of him flow into a wavelike form that crystalizes back to solid rock as dragon fire washes over his transfigured shield. 

The blast of flame ends right as Harry’s makeshift shield melts to nothing, and if a dragon could look surprised, the Horntail would as it sees him standing there, unharmed.

The two look at each other, dragon to human, and as the Horntail rears back to inhale, Harry can instinctively tell that its next blast would last much longer.

Casting about for any spell that could save him, Harry eventually settles on one he had gleaned from the book on elemental magic Hermione had caught him reading.

It was an old Greek spell, one that was created by a squad of Athenian weather mages, it was made to divert massive typhoons and tornados by summoning massive gusts of wind.

It could be used like any other wind spells, but the difference is that it draws wind from one’s surroundings instead of producing from the wands it's cast from. It was created for group casting in it's stronger form but Harry is all alone.

_“Guess I’ll have to make do,”_ Harry thinks, jabbing his wand to the sky, _“I hope I’ve got enough juice in the tank for this.”_

Pooling every last bit of magic he can muster from his core, Harry slashes his wand down, shouting, “ ** _Chílious Anémous_ ****!** ”

Power thrums through the air as a massive gust of wind shoots out, straight at the Hungarian Horntail, meeting the blast of dragon flame midair and deflecting it off course. 

Where the spell and the dragon fire meet in the middle, fire and wind swirl like a yin-yang symbol, and the column of flame barely misses Harry, blasting into the wall of the arena a few feet to his left.

  
  


The dragon fire keeps coming, the roar of the beast, the crowd, and his heart are deafening in Harry’s ears as he grits his teeth and pours more power into the spell.

The heat coming from his left side is nearly unbearable, and Harry closes his eyes, thinking of cold Hogwarts winters spent on the grounds with his friends, freezing months spent in his cupboard under the stairs, the icy floor of the Chamber of Secrets as he laid dying, and pours the energy into his spell. 

The clouds above him swirl and darken as more air is pulled from them and the temperature around Harry plummets.

Ice crystals form on his eyelashes and then immediately melt, frost coats his wand hand, and half of him feels like it's burning while the other half is shivering from the cold.

Growling in frustration, and feeling his magical core deplete rapidly, Harry pushes harder and harder, he cannot let this up until the dragon does as well.

Thirty seconds, then forty-five, and then a minute passes.

Harry’s legs are trembling, and he’s sure that if he let go of his wand there would be indents from how hard he’s gripping it.

Cold chills him bone-deep, and even further than that, he can feel ice creep up over his core, over his soul as the magic drains out of him.

Harry is shivering, and it's only desperation that keeps his wand pointed at the Horntail.

Harry can feel his core dwindling, he’s lost track of time and he has no idea how much time the Horntail has left before it's spent.

But he knows he has less.

He mentally calls out to someone, something for help, prays to whatever deity there is for strength, knowing he will get no answer.

A phoenix is singing somewhere. At first, Harry thinks it's Fawkes, his old friend, but as the song draws closer he can tell that it's a different bird.

The song permeates his being, fire and hope burning through him, chasing away the icy cold of magical exhaustion and filling him with power.

Buoyed, Harry roars and pours even more power into his spell, and through the haze created by his spells and her flames he sees the Horntail’s blast of fire falter, and begin weakening.

_“Almost there,”_ he thinks shakily, _“Almost there.”_

The twin blasts of fire and wind drop at the same time, the clouds dissipate, and the Horntail and Harry stared at each other, limbs trembling and panting, a mass of destruction from the arena surrounding them.

Half of the arena is coated with ash and volcanic glass, heat still emanating from the rocks, their edges glowing orange from where the dragon fire melted boulders.

The other half is coated with frost and every stone and boulder is blown across the arena, pressed against the far wall where Harry’s conjured wind had smashed them.

The crowd is silent, whether in fear or awe he doesn't know.

“Well?!”  
Harry shouts at the dragon, where it still is pinned to the ground by his stone shackles, “Is that all you got you overgrown lizard?!”  
  


He knows that he shouldn’t be taunting the creature that just nearly killed him, but the Horntail coughs and tries to blast him with flame again, but nothing other than smoke emits.

“Tsk,” Harry scoffs, turning around and walking out of the arena, “Fine then.”

* * *

As he crosses the ward threshold, the crowd gets over their shock at the insanely quick reflexes of the champion and his actions against the dragon and goes wild. 

The Boy-Who-Lived grins tiredly as he limps into the Medical tent, Madam Pomfrey ushering him in.

"Where did the phoenix go," he asks the medi-witch frantically, he feels like it is important.

"What phoenix, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey asks him confusedly.

"You didn't hear a phoenix singing?"

The healer shakes her head no, and Harry waves off her questioning look.

“I don’t know how you get into these messes every year but if it happens again I will be tying you to a bed in the hospital wing and you’re staying there for the remainder of the year,” the medi-witch exclaims as she runs her wand through a series of diagnostic charms that he silently vows to learn. 

“In all fairness usually it happens to me, I don’t go looking for trouble,” Harry says, downing the pepper up potion she hands him, perking up with the flood of energy it gives him. 

“Yes well,” Pomfrey says with what he hopes is a fond smile, “Aside some from frostbite on your hand, a sprained ankle, and a minor sunburn, you’re fine. You’ll likely pass out for a couple of days once that magical exhaustion hits, but if you get some rest and don’t let me see you back here for a while I’ll let you sleep it off in your dorm.”

“But, Madam, I have to come and visit,” Harry quips cheekily, “where would I get this lovely banter otherwise?”

“Go on get, out of here,” she says with a grin as she shoos him out of the tent, “I have to take care of your competitors.”

Harry notices for the first time Cedric wrapped in bandages and Fluer covered in burn cream.

“All this for an egg,” he thinks, “I wonder what it does.”

* * *

Bagman gives him 10 points.

Crouch gives him 9.

Karkaroff gives him 7, the little biased bastard.

Maxime gives him 9.

And Dumbledore gives him 10, giving Harry 47 points and putting him in the lead above Krum who has 42.

* * *

“Bloody Hell, Harry,” Ron gasps out, having sprinted from the stands to the champions’ tent, “that was Warlock level magic.”

“What’s Warlock magic,” Harry asks in a slightly cool voice, long ago having decided not to forgive Ron until he apologizes. 

“Sometimes I forget you didn’t grow up in the Wizarding world. It’s like-“

“Ahem,” He was cut off by Hermione glaring at him, “I’ll explain later, Harry. Don’t you have something to say, Ronald?”

"Oh, right," turning away from the irate witch, his first friend faces Harry.

"I reckon you didn't put your name in, and that someone is trying to do you in," head down, he murmurs the last part, "and I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

Taking in his friend with a stern look on his face, Harry tells him, "things aren't going to be the same, Ron. and if you want to keep being my friend you are going to have to be okay with that. I've changed, and my friend group has too."

Slightly taken aback, Ron grins anyways, "Alright Harry, no problem."

Harry catches a flash of blonde hair behind them and bites back a smile as Daphne sends him a semi-approving nod.

The-Boy-Who-Lived grins and said, "Welcome back then."

* * *

Hermione cries.

Moody and McGonagall congratulate him.

He meets Charlie Weasley. 

Ron apologizes to him, and they go back to being friends. 

_“Things are really looking up.”_

* * *

The egg, apparently, screams.

Because why not.

* * *

Harry passes out for a week once the magical exhaustion catches up to him after the celebration in the common room.

When he wakes up, he feels simultaneous refreshed and like he's been hit by a truck.

* * *

After a couple of days of whispers and stares from the general population, Harry corners Hermione and has her explain the Warlock comment.

"Warlocks are incredibly powerful wizards," the bushy-haired witch explains, "they're a designation appointed by the ICW to wizards or witches of exceptional strength, as well as several other requirements."

She pauses, collecting her thoughts, and continues, "Warlocks have to demonstrate a new spell of their creation that other wizards would not be able to use. The third and final requirement is they have to cast a spell of a magnitude impossible to non Warlocks, like a 100 person obliviation, or a whole building Transfiguration."

The look on her face that appears when she knows an interesting fact arises, "the Statute of Secrecy was inforced by three Warlocks who wrought a worldwide Obliviation and Confundus to make muggles unaware of us. Magic of an unheard-of scale. Also, some warlocks have been able to have magical animagus forms."

They sit in silence for a moment, before Harry asks a question.

"So what's with those Warlock comments I've been getting since the task?"

"Well..." Hermione starts pensively, "That transfiguration you used was pretty energy-draining, and that elemental spell was probably strong enough to merit Warlock status." 

She paused before continuing, "And, technically, you surviving the Killing curse as a child could count as the second requirement. so you're really only one requirement from Warlock status. Which is practically unheard of this young."

Harry just stares at her, no reply evident in coming.

Starting to get nervous, Hermione resorts to her old standby, spewing facts.

"There's only been four Warlocks this century, Dumbledore, Grindewald, and a Japanese witch and a South American wizard. Voldemort could have been deemed warlock but the ICW refused to even consider him."

"..."

"Harry?"

He hums in response.

"Can you say something?"

"...yeah. Do you ever feel like some days it's just like 'well this might as well just happen'? Because this is crazy."

* * *

Harry doesn't make much progress on the egg in the first week of December, it just screeches at him, sounds that ever so slightly remind him of words coming from the device, and gives him a headache before he hurls it at a wall.

* * *

McGonagall decides it is the perfect time to drop another tournament bomb him.

He is idly listening in Transfiguration class, one of the few classes Harry attends with his exemption on classwork when he catches the end of the Head of Gryffindors announcement. 

"The Yule Ball is, of course, a chance for us all to...let our hair down, but you must comport yourselves with honor and manners befitting our house."

The rest of the class files out, but he remains sitting, his head spinning as he panics about the Ball. Breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts, McGonagall addresses him again, "Mr. Potter, You must have a date for your opening dance as the champion."

She looked at him, waiting for an answer from the stunned teen, who blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I can't dance, professor."

McGonagall sighs.

_"Fuck."_

"While I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Potter," the professor says dryly, "please refrain from the profanity. five points from Gryffindor."

"Yes, Professor."

"And Mr, Potter? Ten points _to_ Gryffindor for such impressive transfiguration in the task."

"Thanks, professor," Harry grins as he exits the room.

_"How the bloody hell am I going to find a date?"_

**Author's Note:**

> This will be in three parts, and I will write as time and work permits.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!  
> I thrive on validation, so if you liked it leave a kudo or a comment! ;)  
> Check me out on Twitter, recently made an account, leave some feedback or just come chat [@SpeakerForThe](https://twitter.com/SpeakerForThe)  
> 


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